


tangerine

by bullets



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Overthinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29835816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bullets/pseuds/bullets
Summary: pete's good at starting fights, bad at ending them.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	tangerine

pete's good at starting fights, bad at ending them. he goes down swinging, though. he always does.

so, it ends like this: pete leaning over the bathroom sink, blood dripping from his nose to the drain, patrick's hand on the small of his back over his hoodie. 

"you're an idiot," patrick says. he has a way with words. 

"yours," pete says, and that's that.

-

the two of them end up walking back home together. pete expects a scolding, but it doesn't come. 

maybe patrick thinks the guy had it coming as much as pete does. or maybe he's just tired.

either way, it's late, and it's cold. the two of them are the only people in the world stupid enough to be walking the streets this late at night, but pete just pretends that they're the only two people in the world at all. 

the illusion is ruined, of course, when lights switch on or off in apartments above them, when an ambulance siren starts and stops miles away from where they are. 

pete has the weirdest urge to follow it, find out who's dying. 

"do you wanna?" patrick asks, and pete looks at him for a long moment. 

he's not talking about chasing ambulances. pete laughs, though, because he guesses that means _he's_ the one who's dying. patrick doesn't get it, but before he can even ask, pete's already saying yeah. he wants to. 

-

patrick's fingers curl, and pete really _does_ think he might die.

he's been here before, lying on his back beneath someone and looking up at their flushed face. sex isn't new—hell, sex with _patrick_ isn't even new—but pete's usually the one curling up and dying in someone else, not the other way around. 

patrick's fingers are calloused, clever. pete can't help but wonder if he looked up how to do this, or if he's flying by reactions alone. he wonders if patrick realizes how focused he looks and how funny that would be, all things considered, if he wasn't also dragging the pads of his fingers over something perfect and making pete whimper. 

_"patrick,"_ pete hears himself say, and patrick shushes him, leaning over further now so that the bulk of his body is between pete's thighs. thorough. it keeps pete's knees apart. patrick's free hand is wrapped around pete's wrist, and pete's going crazy. he thinks he tries to say patrick's name again, but the sound that comes out is hardly a name at all. 

patrick laughs then, charmed or just because pete's stupid, but either way, he's pouring honey over pete's lips now, mumbling into his mouth that he's got him, _he's got him, come on petey, i wanna see you lose it on my fingers._

he does. pete's never finished so hard in his life, he's sure, head tossed back and, _fuck,_ he's still panting when patrick's hand leaves his wrist, finds his face instead. pete can feel patrick's thumb swiping under his eye, once and then twice. stray eyeliner. pete didn't realize he was crying. 

"yeah?" patrick asks. 

"yeah." pete says. 

"good," patrick breathes, then, "'cause i'm not done with you." 

pete laughs, and the two of them move. or rather, _patrick_ moves, settling down beside pete and fiddling with a condom wrapper, a bottle of lube. pete can hear it, but he doesn't watch. he's shy, or something like that. there's a spot on the ceiling that is particularly interesting.

"c'mere pete," patrick says, and only then does pete roll over, take his hand and go where _he_ leads for once.

it takes some adjusting. it always does. pete doesn't want to take his time, but patrick makes him. 

pete thinks patrick's a masochist. patrick wouldn't entirely disagree. 

regardless, they figure it out. before he knows it, pete's sitting on patrick's lap, on patrick's cock. he realizes distantly that this is the first time he's ever been in _this_ position, too, thighs on either side of someone's hips as they push their feet flat against the bed, push themselves up into him. 

"oh fuck," pete says, eloquent. it's good enough for patrick, though, who's always been able to take whatever comes from pete's mouth and run with it anyway, make it beautiful. 

his fingers are digging into pete's hips. pete doesn't know where to put his hands. he was considering tangling his fingers in the bedsheets, or in patrick's hair, maybe, but then patrick's telling him to lean back and pete can't reach either of those things. 

"further," patrick says, and pete scrunches up his nose. patrick laughs, strained. he's still a generous few inches in pete, after all, the pace they're working with slow and dragging. "come on pete, i got you." 

his fingers dig a little further into pete's hips for emphasis, and pete gets the feeling patrick wants him to overthink everything he's saying. pete scrunches up his nose again, but he goes, leaning back until patrick seems pleased and pete can hardly breathe. 

"is this pity sex?" pete asks, gasping, and not because patrick's making it seem that way, no, but because it's too soft, too warm. even when he's gripping pete hard enough to leave marks, patrick's still being so damn gentle, laughing under his breath, looking up at pete like he drags the sun up over the horizon every morning.

fond, but it makes pete's heart catch in his throat. no one ever looks at him this gently unless they're either planning on breaking his heart or they already have. 

he knows the way this ends, and he waits with bated breath. pete loves on a tightrope. he braces himself for the fall. 

but, "no," patrick answers, firm and shaking his head. it's kind of cruel. when he talks like that, how is pete supposed to do anything _but_ believe him? "this is _'i love you'_ sex, pete."

he says that like it's the easiest thing in the world, like loving pete doesn't have to happen in spite of pete, too. the next time he rabbits his hips up, it's hard, nudging right up against that spot that made pete see stars earlier. 

the noise pete makes is pathetic, but patrick either doesn't notice or does a good job of pretending not to. maybe he just doesn't think pete is pathetic at all, but pete's gone from rain cloud to puddle in a matter of seconds; he's in no position to argue either way. 

-

when it's over, pete hardly believes it is. 

maybe that's because it's not—not if patrick was telling the truth, anyway. pete thinks he might have been, but pete thinks a lot of stuff.

when patrick tries to get up, pete doesn't let him, catches him by the wrist and mumbles something about cleaning up later. what he means to say is that he doesn't want patrick to forget how much he loves him between the bed and the bathroom. something like that. pete can never get the words out the way he wants to. there's a space between his lungs and his lips, and most things that get stuck there never come out. 

patrick can't translate what pete hasn't said, but when he doesn't ask, pete thinks maybe he gets it anyway. or maybe he just doesn't feel like fighting about it. maybe he really is in love with pete. maybe not everything is something else.

if it was a fight, pete doesn't know how it'd turn out anyway. he's good at starting fights, bad at ending them. 

patrick lets him win this one. he gets back in bed.


End file.
